Enlightenment
by tobeimmortal
Summary: A river is carved by the path of least resistance. Changing course is never easy.    2nd Place Judges' Choice Missed Connections Contest – Expanded Entry
1. Chapter 1

– _**Chapter 1 **__–_

* * *

><p>Click.<p>

_Barely Legal…_

Click.

_Erotic Eunuchs…_

Click.

_Barnyard_…click.

"Jesus. How hard is it to find kink-free entertainment these days."

The phone cuts through my wanderings. "And…there's my conscience calling." Radar like a bat, that one.

"What's up Doc?"

"Think you're amusing do you?"

"I don't just think. How's it going over there? Blood? Mayhem? Any chance you're getting off early?" I ask.

"No, I wish…and that's why I'm calling. I just wanted to let you know I have to fill in for one of the other residents, so I've got another ten-hour shift ahead of me."

Of course. "All right…well…guess that means I'll see you when I see you."

"Look I've gotta run," she says, as the sound of someone being paged echoes in the background. "Let's have dinner tomorrow night."

"Yeah, sure. Go save lives…bye…"

Weeknights are often spent here: on the couch, libation in hand, in front of the laptop, with the sounds of the city as my stereo. I'd prefer the company of a real, live woman. But apparently, she's stuck at work. Again.

So instead, I squander my time efficiently.

Click.

Click.

Click.

_**Copper Cutie at Ipsento Coffee – w4m**_  
><em>I saw you lounging in the corner on Thursday around 11 a.m. You were wearing a grey sweater and had wild auburn hair. I was the brunette in green with a gold scarf. We connected too briefly, but I sensed something there. I'd like to find out if there's more.<em>

_Mocha my way?_

"Holy…"

I re-read the ad several times, trying to deny the thrill that's attempting to tempt me. Huh. This is…interesting. _Very interesting_. I do remember her.

…

Writing a clever turn of phrase is what I do. And if it weren't for my pure creative genius and…humility, I'm sure the powers that be would never let me chronically slide into the office at my convenience. But talent and charm buys you a surprising amount of latitude in the advertising world.

On that day however, I'd arrived at work earlier than usual since I was required to present the new campaigns for our latest big project.

_Target market…Brand message…Consumer research…_

Yeah, I got it…an hour ago. But the team likes to suffer every—little—detail.

So there I sat.

My eyes were heavy and my mind numb by the time I dragged myself out of the meeting several hours later. With my mad-dash that morning, I had managed to miss my required amount of caffeine and could feel myself on a downward slide. So, if I'd wanted to accomplish anything that day, I needed to clear my head and find a quiet place to regroup.

The closest café was within walking distance, which meant I could hide for a while but still be accessible. Grabbing my coat and bag, I'd left the office.

Cup in hand, I had commandeered the well-worn, high-back chair in the corner. And, as I settled in and bent down to grab my notes, I caught legs out of the corner of my eye—long, lean legs, getting up from the table ten feet away.

Of their own accord, my eyes trailed upward to discover those legs, had nothing on that face. I gawked like a man starved.

She arched a knowing brow and smiled, but the only reaction I mustered was stupefied. Until of course, a group of dirty hipsters wandered through our field and broke the moment.

And just as they'd cleared, I saw her long dark hair turning the corner.

…

I glance at the clock on the monitor—the witching hour.

"What's your move Masen."

I know even considering this is several degrees of shady. I'm not so morally bankrupt I can't see that. But at twenty-nine, there are still a number of unknowns.

I mean in the abstract, yes, I want a wife and a family and a successful career; I think we're all hardwired to want that. Eventually. Right now, all that just sounds…far off.

The one known: I want to enjoy the woman I thought wanted to enjoy me. But it seems these past few years there's less and less enjoyment, or more accurately, less and less woman. I get it, I have ambition too, I just don't let it consume me; there's plenty of time for that.

So when a beautiful woman looks my way, I might look back; a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone.

In fact, before reason can override spontaneity, I down my third beer and let my hands do the thinking—fingers becoming a blur on the keyboard.

…

"Ung." I'm drowning in a sea of blankets. Pretty sure I'm dead.

Most mornings start this way—my alarm screaming and my cognitive function dormant. It's painful getting my bearings given my usual late night endeavors, but today feels particularly brutal.

Late night—"Oh, God." It's all coming back, bringing with it an undercurrent of dread.

Coffee. Shower. Then deal with this.

I check my outbox, and indeed I did reply to Coffee Girl. But no new mail has come through in the wee hours. That's good. Probably nothing will come of it—then I won't have to give it a second, or even third thought.

Except when I step out of the subway on my way to the office, my phone pings with a new email. Along with it, dueling pings of apprehension and curiosity.

From: bookwrm  
>Subject: Re: Remiss(ed) connection<br>Date: January 25, 2011 8:44 AM CST  
>To: words2spare<p>

_What an incredibly pleasant surprise! I figured the chance of you finding my ad was a long shot at best, but here you are. I know it's last minute and maybe even a little presumptuous, but what are you doing around noon? I was planning to go out for lunch and thought, what better way to get acquainted then where we didn't quite meet the first time._

Maybe I'm losing my mind, but I can't help it, I'm completely intrigued. Besides, I eat with the attractive women in my office most days. And, I have to get food at some point right? It's really just a harmless lunch.

Decided, the rest of the morning I'm distracted and anxious—my stapler is fascinating, my keyboard is clean, and I've beaten my high score in Angry Birds.

The entire five-block walk to the café, I squint against the bright winter sun while anticipation burns me from the inside. It's easy to sit back and judge the actions of others—pointing fingers and placing blame. But, there's complexity to human compulsion. I suppose it could be excused with, _I'm a guy this is what we do_. Except this is not what _I_ do.

Or at least, not what I ever thought I'd do.

Ironically, once in the door the rich aroma of coffee soothes my buzz. And there she is, at the same table, every bit as striking as last time.

In this city, where everyone is vying to get ahead of the person next to them, she seems entirely at ease and unaffected. Self-confidence _is_ an appealing trait—and also rather intimidating.

She hasn't seen me yet, so it buys me a moment; time to gather my wits and grab something from the counter. I focus my attention on the menu board and try to make a decision.

Suddenly, I'm at a crossroad and ordering a sandwich has never been this difficult. Ham on rye, or use a false name? Tuna salad, or ask if she wants to leave and go someplace? Or, I could just sit down, make pleasant conversation and see what transpires. That should be simple enough.

I take one last look before heading over, and instantly I'm dowsed by a bucket of ice. Most of what I see is profile and hands—a thumb running a pass back and forth over her cup handle. Fingers rake through hair. Just small gestures, but I've seen these familiar details countless times. The resemblance is startling.

"Oh shit." How did I not see it before? I'm paralyzed, and there's a moment when all the sound is sucked from the room before it comes rushing back and overwhelms me.

Okay. No need to panic. I can still call an audible. And this realization is my only consolation.

Tentatively, I make my way over.

"Hi."

"Hello."

"Hi."

She smiles warmly. "I think we covered that."

I don't sit; it might be too hard to get back up.

"I guess we did…yeah. I uh…have to apologize. You'll probably think I'm the biggest jerk for doing this…but I can't stay."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have come actually."

"Really? Why don't you pull up a seat for just a minute."

"No, I really…shouldn't."

"I see." Her slim arms fold and there's a shift in her ease.

All of a sudden, it feels too warm in here. I glance to the nearby tables, but nobody seems to be paying attention.

"Listen," I lower my voice. "I'm incredibly flattered that you would seek me out, and maybe under different circumstances I would stay. But I can't…and I didn't want to totally blow you off after I responded."

"Twice."

"You got me there." I cringe, not sure I have a good explanation anymore. "Again, I am sorry."

Her dark eyes are penetrating, and for a second I wonder if I should just take it back and pull up a chair. But I can't stay locked in her tractor beam any longer, so I step back and motion toward the door; putting enough distance between us to hold my ground. "I'm sorry, I've got to—"

"Okay. I think I get it. And yes, I'll admit it's disappointing, but I appreciate you telling me in person at least. Although…if you ever change your mind…"

All I can do is offer a conciliatory smile before making a break for the exit.

I trudge back to the office, glaring at the discarded gum littering the pavement—my thoughts everywhere and nowhere.

The rest of the afternoon is just as unfocused as it started, and the office swarm tiptoes around my troubled mood as if all my sins are on display.

Somehow, my corner of the world looks different, but the same. It reminds me of going on vacation and coming home to air that is slightly stagnant. Everything is exactly where you left it, it just looks—less familiar.

This is definitely foreign territory. And I have no idea how to reconcile what got me here.

…

Vowing to keep this day locked in a vault, I put it behind me while grabbing enough take-out to feed a small country. I also pick up a bundle of flowers, hoping it might inspire—something.

"Hi honey, I'm home."

"B?"

"B, you in here?"

The house is dimly lit; only the cool glow from a streetlamp sneaking through the window lights my way. I stop in my tracks when I see her slight frame perched like a bird on the edge of the kitchen chair; feet tucked up and arms locked around her knees.

This doesn't look good.

She turns her head and I'm met with a pained expression—eyes crimson. Hugging herself tighter, she quickly looks away.

"Bella…hey, what's wrong? What happened?"

The air is still with foreboding, and my guilt is no longer securely stowed away. I slowly make my way over, sinking to my knees in front of her. Years have taught me it's usually my fault, but this time I have no doubt. I reach for her hand but she pulls back.

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"This." She motions between us. My stomach drops.

"What is this about? Obviously you think I did something."

Without even glancing up, she points to the laptop. I don't need to see to know. In a breath, there's anger, shame, fear. And a war between what I regret more—being caught, or the misdeed itself. She's violated my privacy. But I've done far worse.

"God…I know what this looks like, and I'm—"

"Stop. I don't want to hear that you're sorry."

Her tone swings wildly from accusing to defensive. "You left your browser open from last night and your email was up—I wasn't trying to snoop.

"So this is what it's come to?" she asks, unable to look at me. "You're so unhappy that you've taken to answering personal ads?"

"Why?"

"Bella, I didn't—"

"Shut up!" I flinch at her uncharacteristic venom and look to the hardwood for a reprieve.

"I'm so exhausted from work, I feel like I can't even keep my head above water anymore. And the one thing—one person—I thought I could count on…I'm questioning everything right now. How long has this—"

"You think…?" I cut her off and try to keep my indignation in check. "I don't know what you want me to say. I wasn't looking. I'm _not_ looking. But you know," I forcefully point to the evidence, "it's nice to be acknowledged. It's _hard_ to be in a relationship with a ghost."

She swats away more tears, but pulls herself up straighter. "Don't you dare blame this on me."

"News flash _Doc_…you're not exactly around much."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Now she's aflame. "You knew what my schedule was going to be. You promised we'd get through my residency together…"

My defense is hollow. I do remember. I _did _promise. And at the time, I meant it. The things I love most about her—her compassion and strength, intelligence and drive— are what make her excellent at what she does. They're also the same things that take her away. But I am a selfish creature and I had no idea it would be this difficult.

"Is that what this is?" she asks. "I ignore you so you do something stupid to get back at me? I'm not the only one that's been absent over the years. How many nights have you worked late? How many weekends have been spent at the office or out with your buddies? You don't get to play the victim here."

This isn't her fault—not really. I can see my betrayal in ever line of her face.

"How can you be such a hypocrite Edward? _You_ were the one that encouraged me to go to med school. You were the one that said you would be proud, knowing I was out there helping people. What you really meant was, 'go save lives, just as long as it doesn't interfere with the attention you give me'."

There's a beat, and then she deflates. "You know it won't be like this forever."

Her tears fall harder now, and I'm caught between wanting to comfort and wanting to disappear—the weight of my remorse reducing me further.

How did we get here when I used to be so good at making her laugh? Singing off-key while lazing in bed on Sunday mornings or wandering for miles along the lakefront concocting ridiculous stories for each passerby, were things we did regularly. Chasing each other into frigid water to outrun the oppressive August humidity was an annual pastime.

"I thought we were in this together Edward." Her fingers knot and unknot. "Maybe I was wrong."

"No, you're _not_ wrong. I just don't...even when you're here, you're not really here. What am I suppose to do? Distractions are easy to find, but it's not the same."

Watching her struggle to find the right words sends/ushers an unsettling feeling up my spine. I _know_ her; it's clear there is something that's been left unsaid for some time. The moment for candor is here.

"Eight years. I've given you eight years Edward. Followed your flight of fancy to a new city, left family and friends—up-ended my life for you."

It was supposed to be an adventure.

"Maybe if we'd stayed in Seattle, we would have had more support. I bought into your big dreams and at the time it didn't matter; I was so in love with you I would have followed you to the moon. But love only gets you so far…the rest takes hard work."

I look at her then—I _really_ look. Her youthful features now transformed and refined; her face reflects the woman she's become. It's been so long since she was the lovely, wide-eyed, small town girl, gaping at the sights, sounds and goings on of this metropolis.

Of course she's still lovely, but now she's also sure and accomplished. I can't even remember when the shift happened, but it seems like she's surpassed me in every way.

I can't help wonder if she'll want more.

Her voice returns me to the here and now. "I realize that we've been drifting apart for a while, and I just…I don't know.

"You're such a man-child, Edward. You could have almost anything, if you wanted it badly enough. But, I don't get the sense anymore that you really _want_ anything—at least not anything that requires real effort on your part. You excel at your job, because it comes naturally to you. Unfortunately, you expect everything to come that easy."

Not everything.

"I have never pressured you for more commitment then you've been ready for. And I know your parents' situation has made you gun-shy, so I've kept quiet and tried to accept who you are and be patient; hoping that someday, you'd realize we don't have to repeat their mistakes. But I need to know Edward, what you want. 'Cause this…what we've become…I definitely don't want this."

I sit bound and mute, while internally crumpling from her declaration.

I'm usually good with words. I use them daily to sell, persuade, _manipulate_. But there's a difference between convincing someone to buy your client's laundry soap, and making them believe you didn't hurt them intentionally—that you never, ever, want to hurt them again.

"Maybe you should give it some thought," she says pointedly, uncurling from her roost. "I have another shift tonight; I'll be home late tomorrow."

A half-hour after the front door slams, I'm still rooted to the floor—my only company, the now cold Chinese food and forgotten tulips. I pull the phone from my pocket but there's nobody to call. The one I seek solace from isn't here, and at the moment, I'm fresh out of clarity.

Eventually, I find myself slumping on familiar cushions—remote in hand—drowning out the internal with external, while my conscience settles around me like a dense fog.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Answers to questions I barely know to ask are elusive. And after hours of staring at the TV without really seeing, I've solved nothing. So I do something I never do—go to bed early.

* * *

><p><strong>Many thanks— <strong>

To Kassiah and DameNellie for voting Enlightenment 2nd place Judges' Choice in the Missed Connections contest.

To AmyZini, for goading me into this in the first place and then kicking my ass along the way. She's either insane for suggesting I try my hand at writing, or I'm insane for actually listening to her.

To Denverpopcorn, for providing sound advice and liquid philosophy.

And of course I don't own Twilight, or _Mocha My Way_, which is in fact a song title.


	2. Chapter 2

– _**Chapter 2 **__–_

* * *

><p>There's no reason to go straight home after work tonight. Bella isn't there.<p>

The alternative, and more appealing option, is the Green Mill; an old speakeasy left behind by Capone and company. It has played host to many an infamous character, which means they aren't in any position to judge me.

I plan to find myself in a barrel of pale ale.

At some point late in the evening, I become a liquid philosopher; wondering if it's possible to be nearsighted while hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Many things—big things—I wish I could do over. Can't say for sure I'd know _how_ to do them differently. But I wouldn't mind having the chance to try.

Someone once told me they could literally see the path that led them to where they stood—as if they could look over their shoulder and discern a clear trail in the grass.

_There is no easy road to enlightenment_, they'd said. _It must come from within_, they'd said.

They. I don't think _they_ knew what the hell they were talking about.

The realization that I've wronged this patient, kind, and forever-understanding woman is a burden I can't bear. She's put up with a lot over the years. I don't deserve her—not in the least. But I'm going to do everything in my power to figure out how to change that.

Setting my pint glass on the weathered bar, I squint at the clock above the top shelf. Dammit.

"Hey Jake, I gotta hit it," I slur. "Cash me out?"

"On the house tonight man. Get me next time."

I toss him a wave. "Yeah. Thanks."

Stumbling out into the wintery night, I search up, then down the street for a cab. All around me, the falling flakes muffle the urban cacophony, while frigid air brings the world a little more into focus. "Dammit." Again.

The corner of the block looms to my right, so I head toward the intersection, my stride askew. Just as I reach the curb I catch the glint of headlights rounding a turn in the distance.

"Oh, thank God." Who knows how long it would take for another cab to pass at this hour.

My right arm signals as my left hand reaches my lips, releasing a shrill pitch that cuts through the silence. The car flashes its lights. I might just make it home before she gets there.

"Where to?" the driver asks.

"Corner of Clark and Belden is fine."

"Nice night, huh?"

"It's Chicago. In January."

He glances in his rear-view mirror. "True enough."

Fifteen minutes later and eight dollars lighter, I hop out and trudge the half block to our brownstone.

Home. Yes, it _is_ home. It is warmth and meaning and all the things I know I could continue to search for yet never find anywhere else. Or with anyone else.

As I brush off the snow and step through the door, the hum of the fridge highlights the silent space.

Coat on rack.

Shoes on mat.

Gravity tugs harder. _She's already here._

I creep to the bedroom and discover her form curled tightly beneath the blankets.

_Someday we'll replace the drafty windows..._

Quietly slipping off my clothes, I leave them in a pile by the foot of the bed—just one more mess that can wait 'til tomorrow.

The mattress shifts as I slide under the covers and she rolls to face me—her voice weary.

"Hey."

"Did I wake you?"

"No."

"Bella…?"

"Hmm?"

"I really am sorry."

"I know."

"Can we…are you home tomorrow?"

The tension lies between us. She doesn't answer.

"B?"

"I'm home. Go to sleep Edward."

…

I wake up, head splitting, and a cat has shit in my mouth. We don't have a cat.

"Uh…God."

Rolling over takes far too much energy, so my fingers blindly inch further, then further, only to discover there's a cool divot next to me. I'm alone. But the hint of burnt toast trailing through the air whispers, _not completely alone_.

This is a good sign.

Go back to sleep or face the inevitable? It's too early for this type of conundrum. Regardless, it's time to use one of my sick days. And given my lack-luster showing at work yesterday, no one will be surprised. Hopefully my effort will be better served here anyway.

Although in my state, tackling another heart-to-heart probably won't do me any favors, but not doing it doesn't feel like much of an option.

Gathering myself while my stomach roils is another miraculous feat. I ever so slowly make my way down the hall toward the rustle in the kitchen—the too bright (but not really bright) light halting my footsteps for a second. Left, then right, I have to remind myself.

"Good morning." I sound geriatric.

Bella glances up from the newspaper, then decides the op-ed is more appealing.

Great.

This is obviously going to require more fuel than I'm currently running on, so I grab a mug and slowly empty the remaining dregs of coffee from the pot. Pain reliever with a gritty chaser—_mmm_. But right now, I'm too tired and hurting to really care.

The uncertainty in the room is weighted, but I'm not ready to do the heavy lifting just yet. So I stay facing the counter, needing this time to stop spinning and formulate my next words.

A sigh. Then crisp pages turn.

We rarely fight; Bella is not the confrontational type. And for all we know and understand each other, we're still very different people. Maybe I've taken it all for granted. Maybe what I perceived to be ease, was just ignorance on my part. I know I've tried her patience beyond reason at times; whether consciously or not, some of that is just me. But I can feel the _something there_ is still there; sometimes it just needs reminding.

And, the sooner I can find a way to prove that I'm not going anywhere, the sooner we can get back on track.

A deep breath. "I'm taking the day off. I was hoping maybe we could spend some time together—talk." I wait two beats and turn around. Her face is still hiding in the Tribune, but I can see that her eyes aren't actually following the article.

"B. Please. I am sorry—about everything. And I want to explain." Cautiously, I take a step. Left, then right.

Making my way around our hand-me-down table, I pull up the chair beside her. Her profile, half hidden by hair, reveals a glistening ski slope; a tear tumbles off the edge and words melt under wetness.

When I reach for her hand and hold it with intention, she doesn't return my grip. But she's warm and soft; I carefully hang on. At least she's not putting more distance between us.

The defense in her posture—in the way she still won't look at me—lets me know she's trying to keep herself contained. Whether she's expecting the worst or hoping for the best, it's hard to tell. But I'm betting on the former.

I give a little tug. "Hey…please?"

At my words, her false sense of control slips and the shuddering gets the best of her; the wall falls.

"Shh, shh. Come here." Scooting my chair closer, I pull her over—half on, half off my lap—and tuck her into an awkward embrace. All I can do is offer any amount of comfort she's willing to accept; my fingers stroke up and down the soft of her shirt. This time she reluctantly lets me console her, and there's momentary reassurance in just holding her. It's been way too long.

"Oh, B. I'm so, so sorry. You have no idea." We swing slowly, becoming a pendulum.

"I know you said you can't do this—us—anymore, and you're right; we can't keep going the way we have been. But that doesn't mean I don't want an us—that we can't find a way to get through this last year of your residency."

She hiccups and pulls back, her face streaked and hair stuck. I push it out of her eyes, cup her cheeks, and place a kiss over each lid.

"I don't know what the answer is." She shakes her head free.

That makes two of us. "You have to believe me, nothing happened. Nothing _has_ happened."

Big brown eyes, the ones that see through all my bullshit, are measuring my truth. She's not buying it.

"Okay. I ran across the ad—completely by chance. It was someone who had seen me at a café the other week." As reluctant as I am to divulge details, I need her to hear this. "I'd talked to you earlier and you weren't coming home. I was just so…disappointed…frustrated. And here was this person who was…interested."

She quickly backs out of my arms and scoots away. It stings, but I guess hardly surprising.

"I don't think I want to know."

"But…I want you to understand. And I'll do whatever you ask if that's what it takes to believe me."

Legs pull up underneath and I can see her withdraw as she tucks inward.

"So, in a mindless moment…you know how common that is…"

Her curdled expression lets me know my attempt to lighten the mood falls shorter than short. I clear my throat and start again. "It was stupid, but I replied. I guess at the time it made sense—it's hard to explain…"

"Maybe you should try," she bites out. Her usual warmth replaced with something far less forgiving.

"I think you know, it really wasn't anything more nefarious than missing you…being lonely, feeling left out—"

"Being selfish."

I nod wearily in agreement. "Yes, that too."

"You think I don't feel left out?" she asks. "You think I don't see how women look at you? How do I compete with that when I'm not even here?"

"B—"

"And how am I supposed to trust you Edward? How in the world can I work a thirty-six hour shift and not wonder what you're up to—how you're entertaining yourself?"

"Dammit! I know." I grab a fistful of hair and knock my forehead on the table, before realizing that doesn't do a thing to help my headache and sway back up. "I'm not so naive to believe 'you'll just have to trust me' will cut it. I know it's going to take time to prove it."

Shit. I know I'm really going to regret this. "There's more—I did go to meet her."

Bella's lips part and she pales.

I scramble to explain— "And I got there and turned around. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it to you."

There's _that_ look again.

Then—attention diverts. Cuticles are studied. Her head shakes, like the momentum will make it not so. Suddenly, as if on a springboard, she shoots up and makes a beeline to the bathroom.

I'm sure the neighbors feel the door slam.

"Wonderful. What's the plan now dumbass."

A minute. I just need to give her a minute. I think. Or maybe I should follow. I never know what to do in these situations. Does she want me to come after her, or am I supposed to keep my distance? It would help to be a mind reader, because it seems whatever the right answer is, I'm always wrong.

Three…two…one…

Left…right…left…

I knock lightly. "Hey, can I come in?" No answer.

"B?"

Since the doors in this old apartment don't have locks, I know it will allow me entry. And I didn't hear the bolt slide, so I'm pretty sure her intent wasn't to truly keep me out.

At least I have that in my favor.

Inside, I find her sitting in the clawfoot tub, soaking in avoidance. Secondhand memories of a precocious six-year-old with braids, playing hide and seek in the neighbors' bathtub come to mind; her early self that I know only through stories and pictures.

Sadness permeates this tiny room. Grey morning light refracts through leaded glass and makes everything white dirty. Even the blue rug is a drab version of itself.

Since I've already invaded her safe haven, I know better than to push my luck. I slide down the wall next to the door frame and attempt meditation on the octagonal floor tiles—my fingers tracing their honeycomb pattern. This day has barely begun, and it's rapidly circling the drain. Between the remnant alcohol in my veins and the state of emotions punctuating the atmosphere, I've lost all ground.

"I don't know what you want me to say," I stammer, my voice bordering on desperate. "I fucked up okay? I fucked up. And I may be clueless sometimes, but I'm not a cheater. You have to believe me."

Every second feels like it's being prodded up a long hill. Then, so quiet it's hard to hear—"I think…I do."

"Really?" My attention snaps to her and what feels like the first time in days I exhale.

"But the fact that you even pursued an invitation makes me…completely sick to my stomach," she confesses. "All these years—I've always had faith in you. Even your more absurd antics were easy to laugh off...because it was just...you. You've always been a pretty easy person to love." Harshly rubbing her eyes, she looks toward the ceiling. "But...right now...I _really_ don't like you very much."

My head drops in understanding—her utter disappointment sinking me.

"You just…you don't do that to someone you call your best friend, let alone the person you claim to love." As long as I've known her, I've never heard her so defeated. "The excuses, the justifications; they're pointless. You made a conscious choice. How would you feel if I did this?"

It's instantly very cold on the floor. Christ. I am an asshole.

The ache in my head reverberates downward and catches in my throat. All of a sudden I'm finding it hard to swallow.

"I need you to stay somewhere else for a couple days."

"_What?_"

"I don't want you here right now Edward. See if one of your friends will let you stay with them."

My stomach pitches and my pleas are purged. "No, no…this isn't what I want."

"But this is what I need. You said you'd do whatever I ask. This is what I ask. I _need _time to sort through this. I'm too tired to even begin to process everything. So, give me a few days to just…think."

"B…Bella. _Please._ It didn't mean anything."

"It's more than the ad and the stupid girl—don't you see that Edward?" she chastises, her volume increasing. "We haven't been okay for a while. Our schedules—life—have sent us in different directions. I don't know, maybe the answer is counseling…or maybe just time away." Her eye contact cuts through me in the way it does when she wants me to _really_ hear her. "But I need to figure some things out, and I can't do that with you hovering. I'm off the next couple days and I want that time—_here_—to myself."

What do I say to that? After everything, I have no right to deny her. Even though, for the first time in maybe, ever, what I want has become clear. I can only pray that on the other side, we end up in the same place. I won't even consider the alternative.

The stone in my gut jangles as I rise from the floor. In three strides, I'm across the room and bending down to meet her. I lift her chin and bring my lips to hers, silently requesting forgiveness, before pulling back to give her a meaningful look.

"We're going to fix this."

Eyes close. She nods, and I take a step back before turning to leave her be.

My hangover has been replaced by numbness at this point, so I make short work of throwing clothes in a duffel—for however many days. Then I call Seth, hoping he'll let me crash. There aren't too many other people I want to let in on this; all my friends adore Bella and I will never hear the end of it. But he's the one person I can trust to always have my back. Thankfully he keeps his opinion to himself.

He generously offers me the keys to his place and tells me he'll stay at his girlfriend Angela's. I hate putting him out, but I'm actually glad, for once, for the time alone.

Taking one last look around, I head for the front door. Just as I reach it, I hear water begin filling the tub.

The rest of my day is spent struggling with the knowledge that I deserve this grave I've dug. I can't be with her—I don't want to be without her. And I haven't determined what this separation really means. Or how to make it right.

Time will either make or break us.

I'm willing to concede her need for physical space—for now. But that doesn't mean I have to be invisible. She needs to know I'm still here, and that whatever impression she now has of me is wrong.

Before going to bed, I keep my text simple. "Goodnight. I love you."


	3. Chapter 3

– _**Chapter 3 **__–_

* * *

><p>Day two, sans Bella.<p>

"Morning Edward," greets Katie, our receptionist and resident gossip. "Are you feeling better today?"

Not really. And my shitty personal life is nobody's business. "I am, thanks. Anyone looking for me yet?"

"Boss-man wanted you to find him once you were settled."

Perfect. "Will do."

I should have just taken today off too, but I reasoned coming to work would help keep my mind off Bella. Of course, that's not even remotely possible. A scent halts me on the subway platform. A laugh cutting through the crowded street swivels my head. Once I'm at my desk, I can't even stop myself from sending her a text.

"Just thinking about you."

A few hours later…

"Froze my nuts off this morning. We need a trip somewhere warm."

And a few hours after that…

"Maybe a secluded beach for two?"

This time I actually get a reply.

"Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"I am. Diligently."

Five minutes of radio silence pass before I try again. "What are you up to today?"

But after twenty minutes, I've heard nothing and I'm called into a meeting—then another, and another. It's probably for the best. Nothing good would come of sitting at my desk and wallowing. I'm sure I'll find time for that later.

When I make it back north it's late, which means my options for distraction are limited—and unwise. I've had my fill anyway. For better or worse, my nightly routine is definitely changing.

Bella may not want me there, but I'm tired of staying away and unable to accept not speaking. Hopefully I can catch her before she goes to sleep.

"Hey," she answers on the fourth ring.

"Hey yourself. I…I just wanted to wish you goodnight."

"Well…I actually just plugged in the heating blanket and was getting ready for bed."

This distance between us is unnerving, but I'm not ready to close down my attempt to keep her with me. "Yeah, it's pretty cold here at Seth's too."

"Oh, you're rooming with Seth?" she says with barely-there interest.

"If you call sleeping on his prehistoric couch while he bunks at Angela's, rooming. Although if you want to get technical, I'm rooming with his fish—I promised it I wouldn't introduce you two."

She chuckles halfheartedly. I guess it's a start.

"Well, anyway, I don't want to keep you. So…"

"All right. 'Night."

"Sleep well, B."

This isn't going to be easy. Obviously I'm a fool for expecting something different.

Lying back I close my eyes; memories plaguing me like a phantom limb.

Eight years. It's hard to believe that's even possible. We hadn't been dating more than a month when I'd first invited her camping. She'd never been, so testing our mettle in the remote forest of the Olympic Peninsula had seemed like a good idea.

The trip initially had the makings of disaster, given she'd somehow persuaded me to urinate around our campsite. In her preparation, she'd learned that piss would mark our turf and keep predators away. She was terrified we would be attacked by wolves.

I was terrified she'd be too scared to have sex in the woods.

By the end of that weekend, we were filthy and water logged and it was perfect. She'd not only held her own, but could also thread a fly rod and gut a fish like a pro. I think that's when I first realized, Bella Swan was not just any girl.

Tonight, in a feeble effort to fall asleep, I image the sound of rain tap dancing on a hemlock canopy and pretend the lumpy cushions are a warm body pressed against me.

…

Day three, sans Bella.

I shouldn't feel so empty. In reality, this isn't too different from any given weekend she's working. But this _is_ different; it's forced isolation—an urban Siberia. Maybe I could play off my disenchantment as my current living arrangement and the lack of conversation from Seth's fish, but I know that would be a lie. I never realized it would be this bad without her.

So I call, needing the reassurance of her voice.

"Hi."

"How are you?"

"I'm okay. Just reading," she offers, and her tone is a little more inviting than our last conversation. I hope.

"What are you reading?"

"Just something light. I needed a distraction."

And there's the reminder again of all the ways I've messed up. "I'm sorry B."

"I know you are."

"I miss you."

It feels like years pass before she quietly answers. "I miss you too." The undulation in her voice letting me know she's trying not to cry.

"Can we…can I come—"

"Not yet Edward."

"Not yet? When?" I work really hard to hide my frustration but don't think I succeed.

"I just…I need a little more time."

I pull the phone away and bang it against my head. Okay—change of subject.

"My big campaign was chosen. Now I actually have to produce this thing. It's going to be crazy and we're frantically trying to pull it together."

"Really? That's great. I'm happy for you." And I can tell she genuinely is.

"You're happy I'll be working myself to death the next several months?"

She sighs.

"I really am proud of you and regardless of how you try to make it sound, I know you're excited."

"I am actually. I just…a number of things are finally starting to make sense, you know? And I feel like you're the only one I can share it with—that I want to share it with."

"Bella?"

A glance. Nope, still have a signal.

"Still here. Sorry. I'm just…"

"I know. I wish…I just wish I could take it all back. You don't deserve this."

"Edward please—let's not get into it right now."

"Okay, okay…" I can't run her off, not yet.

"Uh, so…you'll never guess what happened to Jake," I offer.

"What happened?"

"He met a woman."

"That's…not really news, considering it's Jake."

"Yeah, but the she, turned out to be a he."

"Are you serious? Did he—"

"Not that he'll admit. But I think he got a…handful."

And then she's laughing. Then a snort. With the tension broken, I'm able to finally laugh too.

"You know it was only a matter of time before he landed himself in a Crying Game situation."

"Why do I have a feeling _this_ won't even deter him," she speculates.

"Not even a little."

"Only Jake."

"Only Jake," we both exclaim at the same time.

"Hey, B?"

"Yeah?"

"I was serious about that secluded beach for two. I promise—I'll take you. I owe you…a lot. And I think we deserve some time—just the two of us."

Another sigh. "You know I can't get the time off until I'm finished."

"I know…but consider it an open invitation. Someday. As soon as you're done."

"Okay." I might even hear a smile in her voice. Progress.

We say goodnight and I'm encouraged. I hope it's not false hope, because right now I'm grasping at any little hint that she hasn't given up on me.

…

Day four, sans Bella.

There's a strange thing that happens as you get older—even in a city of three-million, that caters far more to the young and single than the encumbered family—your friends start to pair up. They may not be married, but they're a unit of two. Occasionally, some are still willing to go out solo, but the pool is dwindling rapidly.

Since I'm not a fan of being kicked while I'm down, signing up for the role of third wheel is off the table. And given my current situation, playing wingman for my few perpetually single friends is probably a bad idea. So at the moment, that makes work the lesser evil.

It's Sunday afternoon; our skeleton crew is spread out around the conference room and lunch has been ordered-in since we're pushing through a deadline. There isn't enough free space, so I stake a claim on a section of floor next to the whiteboard.

A carpet picnic for one.

The first time Bella invited me over to her place, she'd cooked dinner and we'd eaten sitting cross-legged on the floor. She'd only had one stool in her studio apartment, and a miniature grill barely large enough to hold two burgers. For some reason, she was embarrassed by her lack of accommodation, but it didn't matter, because her company more than made up for it.

That night, I learned about her quiet childhood in Forks and how her mother's battle over cancer inspired her to pursue medicine. That she loved classic literature. She was also thoughtful and shy and always tried to see the best in people.

I was completely enamored. And for the first time, I had found myself not just attracted to a woman, but also wanting her friendship.

…

My life sucks, sans Bella.

I can't even remember my name anymore. Work has been the kind of torture that hits you like a battering ram. Repeatedly. Bella's style of torture causes you to slowly erode from the inside. Dual harbingers of death.

I feel one hundred and ten.

A week. It's been over a week and I'm still sleeping on this iron maiden Seth passes off as a couch. He's come back of course; he's also been kind enough to inform me that he and Angela have decided to move in together—the place is mine if I want.

No, that's not what I want. I'll just keep clinging to my quixotic fantasy, thanks anyway buddy.

This wasn't supposed to be a break-up; at least that's what I've told myself. But maybe I misunderstood. That thought is the last thing I need, so I try to push it away. Our few conversations over the past week have been all too brief, mostly between her breaks at work. We're talking—she's talking—but there's still no sign of when she'll have me back. And I promised myself I wouldn't push her.

It's fucking killing me.

Searching through the morning paper, I seeBlade Runner is playing at the theater not far from here; they do film revivals every couple months. It's a classic, and one of my favorites—one of our favorites. There's no way I would pass up the chance to see it on the big screen again. Throw in a truckload of butter-soaked popcorn, and you have a near perfect cinematic experience.

A Saturday matinee it is.

I hop the Clark Street bus south after damn near freezing for twenty minutes at the stop. As great as Chicago is, I can't see lasting too many more winters. Of course I say that, then summer rolls around and everything comes to life again. Continually finding myself trapped in a stinky, wheeled can of human sardines however, is another issue entirely.

Once I reach the relative reprieve of my destination, I get my ticket and a tub of cholesterol. And finally stop shivering. Predictably, I'm running late and the movie has already started, so I quickly make my way to the barely-populated theater.

Even in the low lighting, it's hard to miss that ridiculous wool hat of hers. "Unbelievable." Middle row, center screen—where else would she sit.

When I slide in next to her she looks over, assuming someone is about to invade her space, until she recognizes me and her expression becomes wonder.

"Mind if I sit here?" I whisper.

She moves her coat to the chair on her other side. "No, of course." I offer her popcorn, but she just smiles and gestures to her equally large portion.

I introduced her to Deckard and Rachael and Roy on our first date. At the time, I didn't have much money, but it was playing at the dollar theater near campus and seemed like the perfect solution. She was reluctant initially, not being a science fiction fan, but agreed to play along. By the time it ended she was a convert and wanted to sneak into the next showing.

In the shadows of a dystopian world, we share little glances between fistfuls of popcorn. I can't hide my amusement; after all my attempts, who would believe Rutger Hauer is the one to get us in the same room together. Maybe I should send the man a gift basket.

For as many times as I've seen this, details I've never caught before cause me to take notice. This time around, the dance—conflict and longing—between Deckard and Rachael seems much more poignant.

_Put your hands on me_, she requests of him.

My left arm involuntarily snakes around Bella. And immediately, I fear the reaction that's coming, but she surprises me by laying her head on my shoulder.

Somehow, everything that was off-kilter feels right again. There's no stopping the kiss I plant on her head, and then the grin I feel against me.

When Roy brutally goes for his "father's" eyes, Bella closes hers and tucks into me. Even though she's seen much more gore on the job, the girl I first met is still here. I take full advantage and wrap my hand around hers for the remainder of the film.

_Do you love me?_

_I love you._

_Do you trust me?_

_I trust you._

Words we once used so often. The trust will be there again; I have to believe that.

As the credits roll and the few remaining stragglers exit, we continue to sit in silence. I don't want to forfeit the press of her shoulder against me, but find myself unsure where we go from here. I'm well aware things aren't resolved. Regardless, trekking back to my exile is the last thing I want.

The lights come up and neither of us makes a move while the ushers take up their duty. Her focus remains intent on the blank screen, yet her words are directed at me.

"I think…you should come home."

Even though her tentative grasp on my forearm keeps me tethered, I feel like I'm flying. There are so many things I _should_ say, but again, my words are somewhere beyond my reach.

So I stand and hold out my hand. And when she grabs it, I pull her into my arms, holding her in the middle of an empty theater while a storm rages outside. But in here, the sun has come out and I can finally see the path in front of me.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading.<em>


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